


Swallowed Space

by collie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: As in All the Characters in This Story Die, Blood and Gore, Future Fic, Gen, Insanity, Masturbation, Murder, Paralysis, Psychopath Stiles, Seriously Though Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Seriously Though Major Character Deaths, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski never really wanted to kill anyone.</p><p>He just wanted quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swallowed Space

**Author's Note:**

> This story is literally full of murder and suicide (the 'explicit' rating is for violence, not sex, as per ao3's guidelines SORRY). That's all it is. There's not much else going on here. There are graphic descriptions of killing. Lots of blood. Lots of fucked-up shit. Please don't read if that sort of thing messes with you. Consider this entire story a trigger warning lol.
> 
> I woke up in a bad mood yesterday morning, and [when I saw this on my dash](http://2amsugarrush.tumblr.com/post/68361241347) this story just wormed its way into my head.
> 
> I swear I'm not a bad person, I just like writing murder. |D
> 
> Slight-future fic. Surprisingly there are no show spoilers in this.

Some people bend. Others break.

Light can shine a way through darkness, but darkness obliterates light, and sometimes everything is just much too loud.

What a sad morning for Stiles (danger, danger).

 

It's 6:00a.m. when the 19-year-old walks into the animal clinic and turns the sign to CLOSED. It's 6:07a.m. when he distracts Deaton just long enough with talks of unimportant and irrelevant things, before shooting him up with the largest dose of ketamine he can find. When that doesn't kill the vet, and only sends him into convulsions and has him writhing on the floor in a mess of his own piss and vomit, Stiles grabs a scalpel and carves out his throat before breaking his windpipe.

He's just so damn tired of all the screaming.

The sun is barely cresting the horizon when he walks out with Deaton's entire supply of kanima venom tucked safely inside the pocket of his hoodie.

 

It's 7:16a.m. when Stiles kills Allison.

There are plenty of stencils in Allison's classroom. There have to be; they're for the kids, you see. She started aiding kindergarten teachers about four months ago, after getting her certificate. She told Stiles that she gets a lot of joy out of shaping the minds of the future. He thought that sounded a lot like her; sincere, pure, and pretentious as fuck.

Stiles presses the stencils against her skin and traces them with the Xacto knife he found in her desk drawer. He likes the designs they make; the contrast of sweet, fine lines carved into her flesh waring with the juvenile shapes, all splashed with garish red on her pale skin. It's like an even higher level of art, though he wouldn't exactly call what he's doing art. That's so ostentatious. He's not that kind of killer; he's just ending her in a slightly more interesting way.

Stiles isn't especially violent. He doesn't crave gore. He's discovered that he likes to let blood; the slow seep of someone's life draining out and away. It's fascinating. He wants his friends to _know_ they're dying. There can be no doubt in their minds. They need to know that _he's_ the one setting them free.

He wants Allison to feel her fingertips tingling and going numb, to feel her lips getting colder. To feel the sore ache in her body as her blood slowly pools on her desk and drips onto the floor. Stiles thinks it's a bit of a shame to ruin all the nice little decorations Allison's kindergarteners made for her desk, but he hopes they'll accept the fun stencils on her skin in exchange.

The pony etched into her stomach would have looked nicer if she hadn't kept twitching. Next time he'll double dose the paralytic; this is just a test run, really. Stars carved into either side of her neck over the jugular and carotid. Pretty hearts seeping ironic red on the insides of her thighs over the femoral.

A completely last-minute and passionate decision to cut out her tongue is made, and he drops it into her morning to-go cup of Starbucks. Starbucks is expensive; it shouldn't go to waste. She should get to taste it.

His breath is heavy and he keeps catching himself smearing his fingertips through her blood, tracing over the designs he's etched into her. He's hard as hell inside his khakis, but that's irrelevant. This isn't about that.

There's this soft little keening sound in Allison's throat, in the moments that she can breathe around the blood she's choking on. Her eyes are glassy and keep darting and twitching, and Stiles thinks she's trying to beg? He pats himself on the back for thinking of the kanima venom, and injecting it into the larynx ensures silence. Nothing ruins a perfectly peaceful moment more than struggling and screaming.

He cuts off her eyelids before slashing her wrists. She deserves to see him smile as she dies; to know how pretty she looks. She deserves his highest compliment because she was always a good friend to him. A noble warrior.

 

It's a little after 10:00a.m. when Stiles drops by the loft to kill Peter and Isaac.

The werewolves are a little more difficult to fool. They require more venom than the humans, and Stiles has to carry a perfume bottle with an aconite solution in it. He's grateful that his heart rate doesn't change anymore; not when he's scared, not when he's aroused, and not when he's about to be deceitful. He ceased caring when he woke up this morning and decided to silence his world, and his body is his to control now.

They can't predict him anymore, and he uses it to his advantage.

He feels a little malice when he kills Isaac. A little cruel. There's just something about Isaac's puppy eyes that flips a switch in Stiles. He _wants_ to be cruel. He wants Isaac to suffer. He wants tears streaking the blood.

“I think it's probably because of Scott,” he says calmly to Isaac as he zip-ties the wolf's hands behind his back. “I don't like you. You don't deserve me at my best.” Isaac just lays twitching on his side, lips parted because he was yelling when Stiles jabbed the needle into his larynx. He's drooling, and for some reason it makes Stiles laugh.

He waits until the paralysis is just starting to wear off before wrapping Isaac's head in plastic wrap, and his feet shuffle him a few feet just for safety. Through narrowed eyes he watches the young werewolf struggle feebly, watches the way the thin film clings and clouds up with each of Isaac's pathetic, desperate breaths. He smiles when Isaac's wrists begin to bleed as the zip-ties saw into flesh and cut through tendons, getting nearly down to the bone before Isaac finally dies.

He turns to the couch where Peter is sitting, serene and unflinching. He's paralyzed as well, of course, but Stiles half-wonders if it had even been necessary. Their eyes meet and something passes between them, and maybe in another life he would have asked Peter to join him. But it's too late now, and Peter talks more than anyone else.

“Don't be jealous,” he mutters to Peter, and the older wolf's eyes spark bright blue as the tips of his fingers twitch. Stiles cants his head as he watches the barest hint of claws trying to dig out of Peter's fingertips, but the transformation is as much physical as it is a force of will. Too bad, so sad.

“Stop,” Stiles says, and spritzes him in the face a few times with the aconite perfume. He can hear the choking sound from inside Peter's body as his lungs struggle to expel the poison, but he can't cough and he can't move, and it's _really_ exciting to have this sort of control over someone like Peter Hale.

Stiles jacks off a few feet away after eviscerating the wolf, his intestines pooled in his lap in a big mess of slimy blood and fluids. The smell is pretty unpleasant, but Stiles stand far enough away that it's not stifling.

He's not getting off on the sight of the gore, because he doesn't really care for gore; it was the look in Peter's eyes when Stiles sliced him open. Defiant to the core. To his end. But the best part is that Peter isn't dead. Stiles hasn't chosen to end him yet, and that's control. Supreme control. That gets his cock hard and makes his skin flush and tingle with heat.

When Stiles splatters ignobly on the floor he feels powerful, and the come webbing between his fingers is just as hot and sticky as blood.

He leaves the loft after stuffing Peter's intestines into his mouth, jamming them as far down his throat as he could. He watches the wolf die with a look of shock in his eyes, and Stiles understands that even up until the very last moment, Peter expected Stiles to crack.

But you can't can't crack what's already shattered.

 

He drops by the McCall's house around noon and lets Melissa make him lunch. She just got home from work, she tells him. It's been slow, which is nice. It always makes her happy when people aren't getting hurt as much.

She warms up some leftover lasagna in the oven, not the microwave, because she's an excellent mom. He eats with a smile and compliments her cooking, because as always, it's delicious. When they settle onto the couch to watch some daytime T.V., he tries to avoid looking at her when he sticks her in the neck with a syringe.

He carves out Melissa's eyes before he kills her because he doesn't like the way she's looking at him. With fear and shock and such sadness and disappointment; like she doesn't recognize the manchild standing in front of her. It irks him because can't she understand? He's only become what they made him.

He kills Melissa because she always made him feel tight in his chest when she hugged him, fed him. Smoothed his hair and fussed over him like moms do. Gave him a place to sleep whenever he wanted, cleaned up after him and made sure he did his homework, and birthed the only living soul on the planet that Stiles loved like a brother.

He considers keeping her eyes, but that would make him a weirdo. So he puts them down the garbage disposal.

The skin of her hands is goes next. He botches the first hand because he's not a butcher, or anything. He doesn't have much experience skinning or fileting, but the second hand goes a bit better. Learn by doing, he supposes. He tries so hard to be careful not to cut any of those big wrist veins, but by the time he's finished with the second hand, he can tell he did by the amount of blood pooled at his knees.

He gets off the couch where he'd been straddling her lower body and sighs, because these pants are obviously ruined.

“It's _because_ I love you that I'm doing this,” he says by way of lame explanation as he scratches the side of his jaw, leaving a little blood smear on his skin. “I'm not going to take your hand skin with me, or anything. It's just that your hands are the most motherly part of you, and I guess I just needed to ruin them? I _am_ sorry.”

He presses a hand to to her back, right between her shoulderblades, and digs the scalpel around in the base of her neck until he feels her heart stop beating. It's not easy at all getting to the spinal cord. Vertebrae are pretty efficent at doing their job.

 

Scott and Derek find him walking out through the back door, Melissa's blood still dark and fresh on his clothes. Despite Derek's sudden shouted warnings, Scott loses it and comes at him. Eyes burn alpha red, and he grows his claws longer than Stiles has ever seen before. He even has saliva strings clinging to his fangs as he opens his mouth and roars. Pretty theatrical; very impressive shit.

The whole show, all for Stiles.

He drops his eyes and sags a bit, but all he feels is disappointment and remorse. He never wanted to have to destroy Scott, but it looks like he has no choice seeing as Scott is siccing the dog on him.

It doesn't take much clever sleight of hand to palm one of the needles filled with the kanima's venom and get it into Scott's throat. He just lets the young wolf take him down, throwing up his hands in a mockery of protest. Sure, it hurts when he lands on his back on the grass, but Stiles is used to pain. The impact is jarring, and he certainly now understands that saying about seeing stars. But it's Scott's dead weight that's the most uncomfortable.

He rolls his best friend's stiffening and protesting body off of his with a heavy, panting breath before digging into his pocket and pulling out the perfume bottle. One good spritz in the face, just for safety's sake. Scott whimpers and whines and trembles quite violently until all of his muscles seize up, and red irises bleed away to reveal tears in those pretty brown human eyes.

“Dumbass,” Stiles whispers with something akin to affection? Or maybe it's just the tone he remembers typically adopting with Scott. Either, or. It's a moot point.

“Stay or go, Derek,” he mutters as he pushes up to his knees next to Scott, holding his friend's eyes for just a moment before digging around in his back pocket for the grapefruit spoon he'd used to dig out Melissa's. They have the same eyes, really, and Stiles just doesn't want to feel anything right now. So they'll have to go.

“What the hell happened to you?” Derek's voice floats in, and Stiles can tell he still hasn't moved closer because he's actually afraid. He's afraid of Stiles. All human instincts out and wolf instincts in, and he's circling slowly, slowly, sniffing the air with some sort of desperate look in his eyes; maybe there's an explanation, _any_ explanation. Maybe it's a spell or a curse. Maybe a potion or a poison. Maybe everything has been an illusion. Maybe Derek is just fucking fooling himself.

" _Stiles_ -" his voice is a tight growl, like he's struggling between rage and grief, and that's a shame. It's a shame that it took all of this blood to get Derek Hale to give a shit about him.

“You,” Stiles states plainly with a side-eye at the former alpha, his gaze latching onto Derek's heaving chest, the clench of his fists at his sides, and the way his breath is spewing out into the cold air like a dragon's. He's impressive; he always has been, but Stiles isn't afraid anymore. “You happened to me, Derek. You came into my life, and that was the day I started to die.”

In that moment, Stiles hates Derek for forcing him to kill Scott so quickly. He hopes his little whispered apology to his brother will make up for it as quick, twitching fingers slip the scalpel out of his pocket. He slashes the blade across his friend's throat, before almost absently spraying the aconite generously into the wound to prevent it from healing. He'd wanted to take his time with Scott, because Scott deserved the best, but Derek fucked that up for them.

Derek fucked everything up for them.

For the first time all day, Stiles feels remorse. Remorse turns to resent, which is why he stands and challenges Derek.

The wolf's eyes cloud over and Stiles knows that Derek's forcing down any feelings he might have ever had for Stiles. He's forcing himself to see this ruined kid as just one more monster that needs to be put down. And maybe Derek is right; maybe Stiles is a monster, but he certainly didn't make _himself_ this way, so if he's going down, he's taking Derek with him.

It's 1:44p.m. when Stiles presses his face against Derek's abdomen, lips parting against the slickness of blood that's smeared over the firm, hairless skin. He rubs it against his lips and teeth like a drug, and paints it over his face like he's readying himself for war. The kanima venom hadn't been necessary for Derek; not after Stiles smashed the perfume bottle against his face and severed his Achilles tendons.

Derek went down like a ton of bricks, and Stiles wasted no time climbing on top of him and tearing into him. His hands are a mess of blood – both Derek's and his own – because he can't help the poetry of grinding the pieces of perfume bottle into Derek's chest. The scalpel that's buried halfway up the handle in the wolf's voice-box keeps bobbing every time Derek lets out a soundless howl, and it's not until Stiles grabs Allison's Xacto knife and gouges a bloody furrow up into his heart that he stops moving.

He trails dirty, bloody footprints through the McCall's house on his way up to Scott's bedroom. He takes a shower and jerks off again, watching his spunk swirl down the drain with the water, tinged red. He dresses in one of Scott's shirts and a pair of his own jeans he'd left over here not too long ago for some reason or another.

He scrubs off his shoes in the sink with a spare toothbrush before leaving the house without a backwards glance.

 

At 2:04p.m. Lydia meets him at the front door of her apartment with a gun.

“You should have killed me first,” she whispers, and he feels sorrow for her red-rimmed and puffy eyes. She's been crying. She's suffered because she felt every single death. She knew they were coming but was helpless against them. He feels sympathy; no one should have to suffer like she has.

“I couldn't,” he admits softly. “I needed to save you for last. You were my first love, Lydia. I needed to show you.”

“Stiles–” her voice cracks. “I don't understand–” She breaks right in front of him, and _god_ it's beautiful to watch. She just falls apart inside, piece by piece, and shuts down completely. He watches her eyes hollow out and pupils retract to pinpricks before she turns and stumbles over her pretty bare feet and runs for her bedroom. Stiles steps in and calmly shuts the door behind him. He's not worried about her getting out of the apartment; she lives on the fourth floor.

He's only halfway through the living room when he hears the gunshot, and despite knowing what he's going to see, his traitorous feet carry him into her bedroom. The sound in his throat is tight and desperate, and his fingernails dig into the door-jam when he sees her blood and skull and brilliant brain painted all over the wall like a fucking Jackson Pollock. Her body is slumped on the floor right next to the open window, and the cold breeze blows in, fluttering the curtains like this is a damn movie.

He knows she considered jumping, but Lydia was so smart. She knew if she survived the fall that he'd go down and collect her. His heart fills with sadness that she didn't love him or trust him enough to know what was best for her. That he would have cared for her with such reverence, and she would have been  _beautiful_. Now she's nothing more than a wrecked and ugly thing, but he  _knows_ Lydia; she was always so stubborn, and keeping control over her own life would have been the most important thing. He guesses he can respect that. It's why _he's_ here, anyway.

He lets out a choked, mournful sob and stumbles toward the mess that used to be the girl he loved, his teeth grinding and fingers curling into trembling claws. He falls to his knees beside her and knows that he has to make a choice now, because the gunshot will draw attention; run and run and run forever and ever, because if anyone ever catches him then it will be nothing but loud sounds and harsh touches and no control for the rest of his life...

No. No choices. Only one option. If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for him.

He grabs her gun and cocks it, listening for the telltale sound of a bullet chambering, but there's none. Leave it to Lydia to only keep one round loaded in her gun.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes as he slumps over to sit in the pool of Lydia's blood, his hand reaching to rest on the side of her sticky neck, to feel her blood cooling and congealing in the ample cavern of her cleavage. He brushes her hair out of her face, unsticking it strand by strand, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her still-warm lips.

Twenty-seven seconds later and he's injecting an air bubble into one of the veins closest to his heart with his last empty syringe. The one meant for her. Right before he dies he grabs her hand and sighs heavily, eyes falling shut.

Because Stiles Stilinski never really wanted to kill anyone. He just wanted quiet.

And now he'll have nothing but.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://galaxied.tumblr.com/) . [twitter](https://twitter.com/galaxied) . [policy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/profile)


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